


Solar Powered

by vaqabond



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Mars, Mild Language, Outer Space, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Science Fiction, Superheroes, a lovable asshole tho, santiago is an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-04-15 23:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14151942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaqabond/pseuds/vaqabond
Summary: On his mission to Mars, Santiago couldn't stop fidgeting in his seat. He wasn't nervous about flying in the past, why was he now?





	1. Solar Powered

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've written anything like this, so please let me know if there's any errors!
> 
> The cover page was done by yours truly, and you can follow me on DeviantArt here:  
> https://vaqabond.deviantart.com/
> 
> check out my server maybe? https://discord.gg/AyH6pwK

 

“I hope Daniels doesn’t shit himself again like last time.”

 

Santiago was an asshole. No dancing around it, no saying it nicely, he was simply an asshole. And his crew knew it-- Marco Daniels, the aforementioned team member, was notorious for being a nervous flyer, but no one bullied him for it. Except for Santi, of course.

  
“Don’t start,” scolded Juna. “Everyone suit up, we’re leaving in less than an hour.”

  
Their destination? Mars. The Bayonet crew, named after their lovely ship, the SS Bayonet, had been training for a mission to Mars for years. The crew of four had taken many small trips to the moon for practice, and their goal was to successfully land on Mars to do some field tests in preparation for colonization in the future. Marco Daniels, ironically, was the pilot, Juna Schulz the commander of the mission, and Santiago Acosta the mechanical engineer. Bern Roberts was some form of scientist, focusing on the good health of his team and botany.

 

Juna was already in her suit, ready to take off at a moments notice. Bern and Marco were in their typical work uniforms, but Santiago was lounging around in a t-shirt and jeans, much to the dismay of everyone around him.

 

“I bet Santi’s _really_ excited to get changed,” teased Bern. “All those shirtless men get to you after awhile.”

 

“The only man _I’m_ interested in is you,” winked Santi.

  
“ _Christ_ ,” Marco whispered under his breath. “That’s gay as hell.”

 

The three laughed as they walked over to the locker room for the last time. They have been partners and best friends ever since they were accepted into the program, and they felt as close as brothers. They were as comfortable around each other as can be, and felt safe enough to actually work together on dangerous missions.

 

The cold, dark locker room was once a place of after work banter, but now it was a solemn reminder of what’s to come. The long, empty aisles of countless blue lockers were intimidating, reminding Santiago of how many people were counting on the Bayonet crew to succeed on their mission. He shook the thought from his head and walked with Marco and Bern to the appropriate aisle.

 

The men approached their lockers, conveniently close in proximity-- Marco and Bern’s lockers beside each other, and Santiago’s across the aisle. The men took their last personal belongings from their pockets--phones, keys, and other small items-- and stored it in their lockers before stripping down.

 

Santiago focused on himself, ignoring the other two men changing right behind him. If he turned to look, that would make him gay. And he’s _not_ gay, contrary to popular belief. Only when he finished changing into his under armor and heard the other astronauts close their lockers did he whip around.

 

“Lookin’ good, Daniels.” Santi thought the joke would ease his fragile heterosexual ego but it did not.

 

“Thanks, you piece of shit,” Marco quipped back. Thank Christ he recognized the joke.

 

Their laughs echoed through the large room, and the three mates walked together to a long rack holding various pieces of armor suited for space. Just a few years ago, astronauts had to have three helpers just to get dressed in the damn clunky armor, but now that’s a thing of the past. New technology had made way for more flexible spacesuits, allowing astronauts to get dressed on their own like the big boys they are.

 

The men dressed in silence at first, until Bern asked, “So, what’ll be the first thing you do once we land on Mars?”

 

“ _If_ we land on Mars,” Marco responded.

 

Santiago let out a breathy laugh, “Don’t jinx us, twitchy. I personally plan to say some cool quote, like Neil Patrick Harris did when he--”

 

“Neil Armstrong, idiot--”

 

“--Neil _whoever_! I’m gonna say something like, ‘Look, Daedalus, Icarus ignored your words and soared high, and from his efforts, reached Ares’.”

 

Silence.

 

“...Doesn’t Icarus fucking die? What does Icarus have to do with Mars?” Marco exclaimed in an accusatory tone.

 

“How does our ship relate to a bayonet? The answer is it fuckin’ doesn’t. It’s just a name, and that’s just a quote.”

 

Bern let out a hearty laugh, its beat bouncing around the room. “Okay, that’s enough. Personally, I want to kick some rocks around.”

 

“But you can already do that on Earth.”

 

“It’s not the same, though. Now the rocks are _red_.”

 

With that comment, the boys were dressed head to toe in suitable gear, save for their helmets. While Bern and Marco went helmetless due to its annoying nature, Santiago personally wanted to get a few lungfuls of air before embarking on the expedition. This would be his last moments on Earth for awhile, and he didn’t want to spend it in a helmet smelling of socks and soggy disappointment.

 

 

…

 

 

“T-minus 10, 9, 8…”

 

Santiago was too nonchalant about the whole takeoff thing. While everyone else was hyped for the mission, he played it off as no big deal. Externally, he acted as if it was another practice mission. Internally, however, he was _scared_.

 

“...7, 6, 5…”

 

He fidgeted in his seat. Santi was never nervous about flying in the past, why was he now? He looked around the small room and studied the different buttons and dials that decorated the walls.

 

“...4, 3, 2...”

 

He began to breathe heavily. Something’s not right, maybe oxygen was low, or there was a gas leak. He tried to read some information from the various meters and displays, but they were hard to read from where he was sitting.

 

“...1…”

 

The intercom felt like bombs going off in his ears. It was too loud, was he breathing correctly? He couldn’t tell.

 

“...Booster ignition, liftoff of the SS Bayonet…”

 

The ship began to shake wildly. Santiago closed his eyes and clenched onto his seatbelt. His body was pulled into the seat, as if the force of a thousand small hands were holding him back. He was having a panic attack; the loud noise of the engines and the immense pressure of liftoff was beginning to be too much for him. He felt claustrophobic, motion sick, in danger. What was happening? This isn’t normal, something must be wrong with the ship. Check the dials, check the comms, are comms even working? What about--

 

In his panic, he passed out.

 

When he woke up not a minute later, the noise was still beating down on him. The force enacted on his body seemed diluted, however. Santiago worked up a cold sweat, and his fingers were numb from holding onto his seat belt for too long. He turned his head around and peered at his teammates. Although the helmets hid their faces, he could still identify who was who.

 

They were a lot calmer than he was. Even Marco, who was notorious for his nervous takeoffs and twitchy demeanor, seemed perfectly fine. Seeing his teammates’ attitudes, Santi began to calm down. Perhaps his judgment was off; maybe the ship was fine after all. Marco’s anxiety must have rubbed him the wrong way. There’s no way _Santiago_ of all people would have some petty panic attack.

 

After another minute, the sound of 33 million newtons of force from the engines died down, and soon the crew was free to unbuckle and began their work. Each member left their seat and glided to various positions of the ship, preparing for the first stage of the rocket to burn away. Santiago stayed seated for a few moments, before beginning to unbuckle himself.

 

“Hurry up, you can relax once we reach cruising conditions.”

 

“Give the man a break, Juna,” Bern replied. “He’s probably tired just _thinking_ about all the work we need to do.”

 

Right. Work. Santiago rose from his seat (floated away, more like), and propelled himself toward a small screen that stated various important information about the ship and her conditions. Everything seemed to be in order, and Santiago communicated so to Juna. The longer he worked, the more he forgot about his little incident during liftoff.

 

 

…

 

 

“You alright, Acosta?”

 

Juna’s words shook Santiago from his working trance. He had been working tirelessly for many hours now, and his drowsiness was definitely something to compete with, seeing as he stayed up all night. It’s only been three days since initial launch and he figured work should have been easier by now.

 

Without looking away from his station, Santiago asked, “Sorry, what did you say?”

 

“I asked if you were doing alright.”

 

Santiago turned away from his work and looked at Juna. Her face was stricken with sincere worry and care, and that made his stomach drop. He’s had a certain anxiety bugging him lately, and he couldn’t exactly figure out what was wrong; everything _seemed_ to be working fine, and he really wasn’t one to get cold feet. He tried his best to put down these worries, but he supposed they were big enough to be noticed by his crew.

 

“Oh, I’m fine. Why?”

 

“You just seem off lately. Not many jokes, not enough of me telling you to get back to work.”

 

Santiago let out a small chuckle. “Heh, I guess it’s just the outer space blues.”

 

Juna studied Santiago’s face while he gazed out of a nearby window. Earth’s smooth and colorful surface took up a good portion of the view. Not that it was a bad thing, however-- it was absolutely gorgeous from so far away. Each continent was an array of different greens and browns, and the clouds danced across its surface similar to a gracefully slow ice skater. Earth’s tiny moon followed closely behind, its gleaming white surface reflecting the Sun’s bright rays. Beyond that was utter darkness, only illuminated by small specks of white glowing in the abyss. Soon, Earth would appear to be another such dot; Santiago cherished its company while it lasted.

 

Santiago’s thoughts were interrupted by loud snapping. “Hey. Hey hey. Listen!” Wow, Juna sounded annoyed.

 

“What? I’m sorry, I’m really out of it.”

 

“Maybe it’s best if you took a little power nap.”

 

“No, it’s okay. I still have some work to do--”

 

As Santiago turned to look back at his station, Juna grabbed a hold of him and spun him in her direction again.

 

“You aren’t working anymore. You can’t--” Her giggles cut her off. “Sorry, it’s just so funny to see you spin like this. _Woosh!_ ” She spun him completely around again and watched as his hair tangled and twisted with his rotations.

 

“Wow, this is so unlike you,” said Santiago, a large grin enveloping his face. “I like it, you should show this side more often.”

 

“I’m sure everyone would come to respect a commander who spun around all day, sure,” Juna laughed.

 

“They would! Here, let me try.” Juna stopped rotating Santiago around long enough for him to stabilize himself. He then grabbed her right left and the left side of her chest and began to flip her around like a fast clock, her flying legs coming dangerously close to his face and her short, blonde hair spiraling outward.

 

Santiago’s anxieties were temporarily halted as Juna’s laughs filled the room. She almost never showed this side of herself, instead focusing on having a formal and serious attitude in front of her team. Santi was able to make her laugh, and he took this as something to be prideful about. All seemed well in the world until Santi slammed her head into the nearby counter. Whoops.

 

“Oh shit, are you okay? Oh hell.” Santiago flipped her upright and attempted to search for damage before Juna waved him off. Her beautiful smile was replaced with a slight grimace.

 

“It’s fine, it’s fine. No worries.” Her hand brushed along the point of impact, and miraculously there was no blood.

 

“You sure?”

 

“Of course, I can handle myself. Quit babying me.” Her words stung. “Anyways, I should get going.”

 

The one chance Santiago had any chance with a girl and he blew it. Dumbass. “I suppose you should. See ya around.”

 

As Juna propelled herself away from the awkward scene, Santi wondered if anyone was unlucky enough to witness that trainwreck of an interaction.

 

“She’s right, you know.” The fuck? How long had Bern been there? “You should take a rest, I’ll handle some of your work.”

 

“Oh no, it’s fine, let me just--” Before Santiago had a chance to finish his thought, Bern drifted over and pushed him out of the way.

 

“I’m being serious, you can’t work like this. Imagine if something went wrong while you were struggling to keep your eyes awake. Go take a nap in the pods, I’ll finish what you have left here.”

 

Knowing he couldn’t argue with Bern’s stubbornness, Santiago took one last look at the large man and propelled himself in the direction of the sleeping pods.

 

The room was empty, as was expected. Santiago floated to the nearest chamber and peeked inside the glass window, making sure he wouldn’t intrude on Marco taking a quick nap. He then opened the cold, heavy door and stepped inside before closing it behind him. The cushions were comforting, and the small area was surprisingly welcoming.

 

On the glass window in front of him, a message appeared: _Would you like to set an alarm? Y/N._ Santiago set a timer for thirty minutes and drifted off to sleep.

 

 

…

 

 

Santiago didn’t wake up to _his_ alarm, but rather the ship’s _emergency_ alarm. He tried opening the door to the pod, but he found it to be locked shut. The window displayed a message: _Hazardous conditions detected. Emergency lockdown commenced._

 

Confused by the message, Santiago tried forcing the heavy door open to no avail. He then began to bang on the glass.

 

“Hello? Commander? Anyone? I’m stuck in my pod, what’s going on?”

 

Santiago studied his surroundings. The pod room seemed normal, aside from the blue tinge of the glass. Then he noticed the empty row of pods across the room shared the same red glow of warnings-- hazardous conditions.

 

Santiago’s anxieties began to creep back the longer he studied his surroundings. Nothing else seemed out of place, so maybe oxygen was running low, or there was a toxic leak, or maybe--

 

His intrusive thoughts were interrupted by a loud crashing noise, followed by what sounded like a giant vacuum or strong wind. The sounds were louder than anything he’s ever heard; even the noise canceling properties of the sleeping pod seemed to have no chance against the attack on his ears.

 

At the same time, the ship shook violently. Santiago’s restricted body was thrashed around like a ragdoll, the pod insides chafing against his skin. His head hit the glass in front of him, and his limbs were bruised and battered from the unrelenting motion. The cushions around him offered little comfort. Meanwhile, the view outside his window turned from an empty, motionless room to a scene of utter destruction. Large flames enveloped any breathable air, and loose papers and tools were scattered throughout. A hole in the wall behind the pods across from him began to develop.

 

Santiago was wild with panic. His mind whirred; thoughts ranging from _oh shit_ to _oh my god_ filled his head and left little room for rational thinking. He began to bang on the glass, and screamed for someone, _anyone_ , to notice his plight. It was growing unbearably hot in his coffin, and he was afraid of passing out from the heat and fear.

 

The broken wall across from him began to tear away slowly, before completely collapsing all in one motion. Any loose items were immediately sucked through the newly-formed vacuum, and fixed objects were ripped away from the walls of the room. Some empty pods tilted and shook, before flying off as well, creating even more destruction and chaos. Santiago didn’t believe in hell, but he was confident this is what it looked like; flames danced in mockery of him, and the flying debris reminded him of his own morality. He began to pray for the first time in his life. He prayed that he would die quick, he prayed for forgiveness, he prayed that his friends would survive or at the very least find their way to a comfortable afterlife.

 

His friends. Fuck, how could he forget? While Santiago had been protected by the fortified walls of the sleeping pod, his friends would have been exposed to scorching temperatures, fast-moving debris, and the harshness of space. He figured there was no way anyone could survive such temperatures without at least being in a spacesuit. Tears and blood stained his face now, but this was nothing compared to what his friends might be going through.

 

Suddenly, Santiago’s own pod began to shake and tilt, before it too was launched into the dark outside. The pod was damaged on its way out; it hit the wings of the SS Bayonet, along with the debris that littered the once calming and beautiful expanse of space. A message appeared on the scratched and stained glass, warning Santiago of its damage: _Damage to pod detected. Override emergency lockdown? Y/N._

 

“No, no no no no no!” Santiago screamed, furiously tapping _N._ He hoped the damage wasn’t too severe.

 

Santiago caught sight of the ship as a whole as his pod slowly rotated. Almost half of the ship was completely missing; a large gap occupied the space above the left wing, and the tail end was nearly destroyed. The ship’s once sleek exterior was now rugged, and the awe it once gave to Santiago was replaced with horror. Although it was hard to identify specific details of the ship through the cloud of debris and his own throbbing cranium, Santi swore he could see another living person in what would be the armory of the ship. This figure appeared to be wearing at least _some_ sort of external-use dress, though it was oddly unmoving.

 

It took all of his might to not throw up. He was sobbing. He missed his friends, he wanted to go back home. Why had this happened? Was it his fault? Intrusive thought plagued Santi’s mind; it was the only company he had left in his small, claustrophobic coffin.

 

After seeming hours of frantic panicking, his thoughts began to slow down. He was still scared, but he found the absolute silence of space to be comforting. Already he thought of the countless ways he could’ve saved his team. Already he thought of the countless ways he should’ve lived his life, and already he thought of the countless ways he could survive his current situation. But none of that mattered now; he was content with death.

 

As his pod slowly rotated to give Santiago one last look at the offensive rays of the Sun, he closed his eyes for good and let the fleeting oxygen supply drift him off to sleep.

 

 

…

 

 

When he woke up to the welcoming blue sky and a soft green field, Santiago was… confused, to say the least.


	2. Fallen Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty to my discord server for helping me with names! and a biiiiiiig thanks to dulcie for encouraging me to actually continue writing this haha. totally didnt plan to abandon this idea nope
> 
> but here we are! i actually have a plan for this little series and my motivation for this project has grown since i started
> 
> ps: i apologize for any weird formatting around italicized words; ao3 doesnt like copy/pasted italicized things and adds weird spacing :/ sorry! ill fix it later if i can remember
> 
>  
> 
> all art was done by me, and you can find more on my deviantart >>> https://vaqabond.deviantart.com/

 

The grass was so soft. Santiago didn’t want to get up. Earth was his cradle, and the tall grass obscuring his vision was his mobile. He felt bliss for the first time in… how long? How long has he been laying here?

  


His bliss turned to panic as he shot up from his comfortable position on the ground. His head was spinning, due to both having an intense headache and being confused as to where he was and if the reality around him even existed. The last thing he saw was space. He remembered taking a nap and waking up in some sort of nightmare realm that was his ship. He remembered screaming, crying, coming to terms with death, and finally, silence. He remembered his crew. He remembered Marco, Bern, Juna.

  


The thoughts of his teammates brought him to tears. He was confused beyond belief. What had happened? Why was he here? Where was his team? His friends? He wondered if they were gone but quickly dispelled that thought. Surely, none of this is real. He remembered dying, he remembered their ship… doing whatever that was. He wasn’t entirely sure why the ships emergency alarms went off or why a large hole developed in the very room he slept in, but Santiago also wasn’t sure why or how he had ended up here of all places. Here, straddled in nature’s soft grass.

  


His mind was racing and the streaks of tears on his face turned into steady streams. He was concerned for his friends and absolutely denied any thoughts of them being gone or in any sort of danger. They’re alright, they’re at the base waiting for him. This isn’t real. This is okay. He also denied being in full panic-mode, but he knew that he could never convince himself.

  


Through his sobbing, he inspected his body. He was still dressed in his under armor, though it seemed to be in mint condition. The cloth hugged his body tight and was a stark contrast to the nature around him; the red under armor to his suit made him feel like an outsider compared the towering grass around him. His shoes were gone and his light feet were subject to the sun’s rays. The bruises and cuts that should have lined his arms and chest from the constant thrashing about in pod were missing, too; there was no scarring, no indication of any injuries ever existing. In addition, he seemed perfectly clean, as if he just hopped out of the shower. All of these details gave off the impression that he had been perfectly taken care of by another being, as if someone took the time to mend his clothes, wash his hair, clean his body, and heal any injuries.

  


Santiago wiped his eyes and looked at his surroundings, an obvious difference to what he remembered seeing last. The horrid image of the burning ship was replaced with open fields of grass, and the wide expanse of space was covered with a coat of blue sky and a slushie of clouds. The offensive rays of the sun were… still offensive to his sensitive eyes.

  


Aside from a slight breeze making waves in the ocean of tall grass, there was no movement in the area. No birds, no bugs, no sign of civilization. The silence bothered him deeply. Being alive bothered him deeply. Santiago steadily rose to his feet, his throbbing headache quickly returning. In all directions, the same image persisted-- endless long grass. He picked a direction and walked.

  


...

  


He walked for hours, it seemed. The sun progressively lowered in the sky, and Santiago progressively became hungrier, more agitated. His previously pristine clothing slowly became covered in dirt and grime, and his clean hair became greased with sweat. The once soft grass felt like needles to his aching feet, and he desperately wished for a savior.

  


During this expedition, he tried to reason with the situation he was placed in. He figured that he was on Earth and alive. Not heaven nor hell-- alive. He felt pain, both physically and mentally. He figured that he wasn’t on Mars or the moon either, as he was breathing fine, not to mention the familiar blue sky and plant life.

 

He was slowly coming to terms with his situation. He began to understand and even come to accept a little about the craziness of this event.

  


Just as his tense shoulders finally began to loosen and he felt a bit more at ease, a bright flash illuminated the area in front of him and a loud boom found his way to his delicate ears. Santiago ducked down and covered his head.

  


“Who’s there?” a strange voice yelled, followed by the sound of a cocking gun. The man sounded like he meant business.

  


“It’s me, it’s me! Don’t shoot!” Santiago practically screamed. His eyes were tightly closed and his entire body tensed with each noise he heard.

  


He heard the gun click. “Who’s ‘me’?”

  


Santiago slowly sat up from his ducking position and raised his hands above his head. “Put down the gun! Look, I don’t really know where I am, so if you could just, y’know, put down the gun, then maybe we could… we could… uh...” Santiago trailed off, unable to continue the sentence. He became aware of his trembling, his heavy, labored breathing. Which struck him as odd, as he had already faced death and his worst fear already. He was fine about dying sometime before, but now that he’s experienced Earth’s air once more… he began to rethink everything.

  


There was a long, drawn silence. No crickets, no birds, no wind. Only the sound of his beating heart and rushing blood kept Santiago sane throughout the seemingly long hours of dead quiet. That is, until the strange man spoke up. “Who are you?”

  


Santiago looked up at the man for the first time. Although it was dark out, he could identify the man’s main features: short, stout, beard, shotgun, cowboy hat. Cowboy hat? Santiago found this mildly amusing through his crippling and unexplained fear.

  


“Where am I?”

  


“You’re on my property, and I’m getting pretty cross with you. I said who are you?” the man asked harshly, motioning the barrel of his gun towards Santiago.

  


“I’m Santiago Acosta!” he all but shouted. “And I’m lost! I’m part of the Bayonet crew, of the Mars--”

  


“Okay, alright, shut the hell up son! You’re fuckin’ nuts. Get the hell out of here.” With those words said, the man lowered his gun.

  


“...What?” was all Santiago was able to get out.

  


“I said leave. Get off my lawn.”

  


Santiago finally stood up from his kneeling position and lowered his hands. “I don’t think you understand. I’m not-- I don’t know where I am. I should be… what day is it?”

  


The man let out a breathy sigh. “Wednesday.”

  


“No, no I mean--”

  


The man cut him off with a grunt and added, “July 12. Quarter ‘til 9. Need the year, too?”

  


“Uhm, maybe?”

  


The man seemed surprised. In a softer tone of voice, he asked, “You… who did you say you were again?”

  


“Santiago Acosta. Mechanical engineer of the S.S. Bayonet for the 092 Virgin Expedition Mission to Mars. For, y’know, the UNSA.”

  


Santiago expected the man to be left in a state of confusion. He did not, however, expect him to drop his shotgun. Although it was quite dark outside, Santiago could see the faint hint of something morbid in the man’s eyes. Santiago shuffled his feet nervously as tension steadily rose between the two men. Before Santiago could break the silence, the man walked up to Santi and placed both of his hands on his shoulders. The grip was firm yet soft and comforting, and the anxiety in Santi’s stomach rose as his mind began to list the possible reasons for this sudden change of tone.

  


“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t-- I--” The man fumbled over his words. Before Santiago could reply, the man picked up his dropped shotgun and began tugging on Santi’s arms, ushering him somewhere. “Hurry now, let’s get you inside.”

  


“Wait, what? Where are we going?”

  


“My home,” the man replied.

  


Santiago thought about objecting, though he figured staying in a house for the night would be a highly welcomed change in scenery compared to the endless sea of grass that he ventured in for the past few hours. Besides, Santiago was in no shape to continue his endless trek; he was hungry and thirsty and tired. He only hoped that this man was good-natured and not taking him home for ill intent.

  


The man dragged Santiago to his old pickup truck and opened the passenger door for him. Santiago climbed inside and noted the old, worn seats. Before launch, he would’ve been uncomfortable sitting in a truck with such marks of history, but he could care less now. He was sat down in a sheltered cab with comfortable cushions-- an obvious upgrade to walking around in tall grass for hours.

  


As Santiago buckled his seatbelt, the man tossed the shotgun into the bed of the truck and hopped into the driver’s seat. Santiago nervously twiddled with the seatbelt as the man started the engine. The radio turned on automatically, the country music helping to clear the awkward tension in the cab.

  


After a minute or so of driving, the man turned down the volume. “I’m George by the way. George Hill. I’d shake your hand but I’m kinda driving right now, heh.”

 

Santiago smiled weakly. “Good to know your priorities are in order.”

  


“Of course.” The two men sat in silence again, the muted music replaced with the gentle hum of the engine and the rattling of the old truck.

  


“So,” the man began again after a few moments, “What happened?”

  


Santiago stopped to think but had no idea how to reply. “Excuse me?”

  


“After… y’know… the crash.”

  


Santiago’s heart stopped in his chest and his face paled. He gripped the seatbelt around his chest tightly and turned to look outside. There wasn’t much to see-- only the eternal expansion of the dark fields. The once cheerful and welcoming blanket of grass he awoke in turned to a menacing carpet of teeth and bones as memories of what happened began to rush back.

  


When Santiago didn’t reply, the man continued talking to fill the empty space. “The crash was a national sensation, you know. People looked up to those travelin’ to Mars. The big M-A-R-S. Finally gon’ expand our lil’ empire, you know? The launch was on live TV, live! Everyone thought that since it was live, nothin’ can go wrong. Yet here we are.

  


“I don’t know shit ‘bout space. Hell, I don’t even find it interesting. Just a bunch of stars in the sky. I like it better down here with my family and cows. But I do know this: no one expected the trip to last a whole three days. Y’all launched, gave us some cute live updates, did some science shit. It was inspiring. Made it much more crushing when you-know-what happened.”

  


While the man spoke, Santiago struggled not to throw up. He looked outside, tried to ignore George’s words. He didn’t want to let the man know how uncomfortable he was. When he first found himself in the fields, he was in denial about what had happened. Something strange was up. But now that another human being was telling him his point of view, what had really happened, everything came rushing back to him. The anxiety he was feeling at this moment was nearly identical to the anxiety he felt on liftoff-- obviously unreasonable to be feeling but crippling nonetheless. He began to feel sick. Physically sick.

  


“Stop the car!” Santiago yelled, quickly unbuckling his seatbelt and trying the door. George slammed on the breaks, sending Santiago hurdling into the dash in front of him. Santiago quickly recovered and opened the doors, practically falling out of the truck.

  


George got out as well, and when he came around to Santi’s side of the truck, he saw the poor man bent over and puking. George stood there, dumbfounded, unsure of how to react. Santiago, on the other hand, was dry heaving heavily and shivering profusely.

  


“Oh shit, son. You alright? What--” George was interrupted by Santiago holding his palm up to the man, signaling him to stop talking. Perhaps it was rude, but Santiago didn’t care. George brought back memories. Memories that he didn’t hope to forget, but memories that he didn’t want to think of anytime soon. Santiago almost died, his friends were… dead? MIA? And here came this man, discussing the event as if were as uneventful as a bird he saw in his yard one morning.

  


As Santiago finished throwing up, he wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt. He turned to look at the man but said nothing.

  


“You done?” asked the man.

  


Santiago sighed deeply before replying. “Let’s not talk about what happened. Please.”

  


“Of course. Let’s get back inside. Just five more minutes and we’ll be at the house.”

  


The two men piled back into the old pickup truck, turned up the country music, and drove off.

  


…

  


Standing outside, Santiago could see that George’s house was beautiful. At least, what could be seen in the _dark_ was beautiful. It was an old, wooden farmhouse but still in great shape. Two stories tall, slanted roof, small patio decorated with a bench and two rocking chairs. There was another vehicle parked out front-- a minivan, presumably used for family outings. Each window of the large house was illuminated with soft yellow light, and if Santiago tilted his head just right he could see a woman working in the kitchen.

  


“Come on, we ain’t got all day,” George said, walking towards the house. Santiago followed closely behind, walking with the man up onto the wooden patio and to the door. George fished his keys out of his jeans and unlocked the door, holding it open to allow Santiago to enter first.

  


As he entered the house, Santi was met with the fleeting aroma of potatoes, turkey, corn, and other typical American dinner food. A welcoming smell. The floorboards creaked as he slowly walked into the living room in front of him. George followed suit, closing and locking the door behind him.

  


“Hey,” George began, “follow me. You need to meet my wife first.” George led Santiago away from the empty living room and into the kitchen, where the lady Santiago saw earlier was still working. She was rather short and plump, mid 40’s, it seemed. Her dark hair bounced and swayed with each motion of her arms as she vigorously tried to remove chunks of dried food from a plate.

  


“I’m back, dear,” greeted George. The woman set aside the dishes she was cleaning to run over to the two men and give her husband a quick kiss. “Who’s this?” she asked.

  


“This’s Santiago Acosta. You know, the one from--”

  


“From the news?”

  


“Yes, but--”

  


The woman quickly turned to face Santiago and grabbed his hand to shake it enthusiastically. This came as a surprise to Santiago; her enthusiasm was a stark difference to George’s solemn (and just a tad bit inconsiderate) attitude.

  


“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Acosta! I’d assume you’ve prolly tired yourself out from all that’s happened. Here, here, let’s get you a plate of food.”

  


The woman moved behind Santiago and began pushing him into the direction of the kitchen counters, where dinner had just been wrapped up in tinfoil and packaged into containers as leftovers from the recent meal.

  


“Oh no that’s fine, Mrs. …?”

  


“Oh, Darcy’s fine dear!”

  


“You really don’t need to feed me, Darcy, I--”

  


“Nonsense!”

  


“If the man doesn’t wanna eat--”

  


“He needs to eat, he’s so thin! A shower and a change of clothes would be in order too, poor thing…No buts!”

  


Darcy gave off the impression that her word was final. Once she set her eyes on something, it seemed to Santi, she would do everything in her power to secure it. George seemed to have accepted this long ago, as he simply left the room after Darcy’s last remark. Darcy also seemed to be the person who didn’t ask questions, a trait Santiago was grateful for at this point in time. He wasn’t in the mood for discussing his circumstance; he only wanted a place to stay for the night. Nothing more.

  


Darcy made a plate of food for Santiago-- turkey breast, mashed potatoes, peas, and corn-- and reheated it in the microwave.

  


“Sorry, we already had dinner. We didn’t expect company.”

  


“Oh, that’s no biggie.”

  


Darcy took the reheated food out of the microwave and handed the plate to Santiago before pushing him into another room again. She led him to the living room, where she directed the man to eat on the couch. Santiago, of course, obliged.

  


While Santiago got himself comfortable on the blanket-covered couch, Darcy sat in a recliner to the left of the man and watched him intently. She opened her mouth to begin a conversation, but was soon interrupted by a small girl, no older than 7, running into the room in which they sat.

  


“Momma, Momma, I--” The girl stopped dead in her tracks when she finally set eyes on the strange man sitting on her couch. After a few moments of stunned silence, she slowly walked up to the man and asked in a low voice, “Are you an angel?”

  


“A what?”

  


“An angel.”

  


“Why would you think that? I’m no holy man.”

  


“Your hair.”

  


His hair? Santiago turned to Darcy, who was smiling brightly at the scene in front of her. “What’s up with my hair?”  
  
  
“It’s bleached.”   
  
  
“No it’s not. Can’t be.”

  


“It is, though. Snow white.”

  


Last Santiago checked, he had brown hair. Or black, he supposed, depending on who you asked. But not white. He may be an asshole, but he was no fuckboy. How did his hair attain such a color, assuming Darcy and this little girl weren’t fucking with him? There was no salon in space, and he wasn’t old enough to be going gray just yet. While he’d love to delve deeper into this pressing issue, his thought process was interrupted by the little girl tugging on his arm.

  


“So? Are you an angel or not?”

  


“No of course--” Santiago stopped himself and changed his answer. “Yes. Yes I am. A… fallen angel, you could say.”  
  
  
This obviously pleased the little girl, as her curious face was overtaken by a pure, wide smile. The little girl gave Santiago her thanks before running back into the hallway from which she originated.

  


Santiago smiled to himself before resuming the meal sitting in his lap. Only a minute or so passed before Darcy spoke up again.

  


“So,” she started, “could you maybe tell me how you got here? Or is that too much to ask of right now?”

  


Between bites of turkey, Santiago replied. “How I got in your house? Went through the front door.” Although the comment wasn’t very funny, Santiago was glad he felt comfortable enough to start being snarky again. Small steps.

  


“Aren’t you a little smartass?” Darcy laughed. “I mean here. Earth. Texas. Last I checked, you were flyin’ through space. Well, maybe not flyin’ per se...”

  


Santiago planned to inform the welcoming woman that he wasn’t in the mood to talk about that right now. Instead, he focused on the location she just revealed to him-- Texas. “I-- what state is this again? Texas?”

  


“Yup.”

  


Santiago sat dumbfounded; any food he might’ve held in his mouth dropped to his plate in shock. Texas? That’s pretty far from his launch location of Lompoc, California.

  


“What city?”

  


“Don’t think you’ve noticed, dear, but we’re out in the middle of nowhere. Closest city is Lubbock, about an hour and a half northwest of here.”

  


Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. New plan (not that he had a plan to begin with): find a ride to the nearest airport and fly over to Lompoc, where he’ll reunite with his friends and live happily ever after. Sounded dandy.

  


“Do you know where the nearest airport is?”

  


“Lubbock as well.”

  


Wonderful. “I’d hate to be a bother, but do you think I could catch a ride from one of you to Lubbock? Tomorrow, if possible?”

  


“Ain’t that a bit soon, dear?” asked Darcy, a look of concern overtaking her face. “You just got here, and it’s a bit too obvious that you’re not in too good o’ shape.”

  


“I’m sorry, I’m just in a hurry to get back home is all. I plan to catch a flight--”

  


“I understand,” she interrupted. “My son Aiden could take you tomorrow morning. You all done with your food?”

  


The truth was that Santiago was nowhere near finished with his plate, as hungry as he was. He had a loss of appetite, though there’s no way Darcy could have known of this. Could she read minds, or was she just rushing him? Was it something he said? Santiago hoped that he wasn’t rude; he was only anxious to get back home and hoped that he didn’t seem itching to get away from Darcy and her family.

  


As Darcy took away his plate, she urged Santi to take a shower. The man followed her directions-- down the hall, first door on the right-- and entered the drafty bathroom. He locked the door behind him and stripped out of his rugged under armor before beginning his shower. As the showerhead gently cried onto Santiago’s bare shoulders and stripped away the grime and imperfections from his body, he felt a sort of bliss that he’d only experienced a few times in his life before. His anxieties and regrets and sorrows swirled and disappeared into the drain below his feet, along with the dirt he had dragged along with him for so long.


End file.
